Darkness
by 80sarcades
Summary: It wasn't the first time Peter Newkirk had traveled through the graveyard. This time, however, it might be his last...
1. Chapter 1

**_Darkness_**  
**_by 80sarcades_**

* * *

_Welcome! The tale you are about to read may be for Halloween (I'm just a bit late for it) but it is actually set during the warm summer months. _

_Due to real life/personal issues I haven't been on ff dot net for some months. However, I haven't given up on writing...not by a long shot! It may take a while but I will eventually get back to reviewing the wonderful HH stories out there:-) In the meantime, enjoy!_

* * *

_It was a dark and stormy night..._

Peter Newkirk grinned as he walked out of the Hofbräu and into the clear moonlit night. _Glad it's not really one of those nights_, he wryly thought. _And the rest of that bloody book was awful, too._

_At least the plans are on their way to England. With a bit of luck, they should be there in a week._ He frowned wistfully as memories of home swam unbidden in his mind's eye. _Too bad I can't go with them._

With effort, the Prisoner-of-War shook the homesick feelings away. _Well, enough of that,_ he decided firmly. _Back to camp we go._

With a nod, he flicked his spent cigarette onto the pavement before he made his way to the town limits. He walked casually, almost unhurriedly; to anyone watching he was just another worker heading home after a long day. It was only when he reached the treeline that he began to relax; within twenty minutes he would be home.

_Home_, he snorted in disgust. _Never thought I'd ever call that place home. I used to be embarrassed about living in me mum's house, with it being run down and all. That all changed when I came here. Compared to Stalag 13, her house is the Savoy itself._ At that moment, he flashed a grin into the darkness. _There's always the__ silver lining, though,_ he thought cheekily. _I can't complain about the birds, and they have nice legs, too__-_

Newkirk whirled around as a light feminine giggle suddenly drifted out of the darkness. Except for the trees, he was quite alone; a fresh wind rustled the branches of the tall sentinels around him.

_Maybe I'm just hearing things_, he decided. _Or someone's walking on the road nearby and I heard them._ For a moment, he listened carefully but heard nothing.

Another breeze stirred the leaves above his head; he let out a slow breath of relief. _ That's probably what it is_, he rationalized. _Just the wind._ He shrugged, then started on his way back to camp. As he did so, he glanced at the darkened woods; for some odd reason he had the feeling of being _watched_.

_It's just your imagination,_ he told himself. _If the Krauts were around, they would have picked me up before I entered the woods. You're worried about LeBeau, and you haven't been getting any sleep. Mind will play tricks on a man._

Even so, he was still on his guard.

* * *

It wasn't long before he reached the first indication that he was on the right track. Another short path, worn by countless generations of feet, suddenly branched off to his right. At the end lay the town cemetery.

The RAF corporal was about to take his usual route back to Stalag 13 when the sharp noise of a branch breaking echoed through the surrounding forest. Newkirk crouched down and hurriedly studied the woods behind him. As before, he saw nothing.

_Probably an animal._ _I hope_, he added.

He was about to rejoin his path when something else caught his eye. A faint flicker of blue pulsed, disappeared, then flared back again.

_What is that?_

Frowning, he stepped off the main pathway and walked towards the oddity. As he did so, the light became slightly more distinct in form; he now saw that it outlined the path in a hazy, almost subtle blue glow that ran up to the cemetery itself. Instead of being fearful, he stared at the display in wonder.

_How is it doing that?_ he thought, enthralled by the sight. An answer then came to him:

_I remember now_! his relieved mind recalled. _The Guv'nor told us something about Saint Elmo's fire. It burns blue just like this, I think. __I wonder why just the path and not anything else?_ He shook his head, then turned away.

_I'd better be getting on back to camp._

With that, he walked back to his original path and started onward. A few minutes later he could see a dim light ahead of him; he sighed in relief.

_Finally!_ he breathed as he drew closer. _As soon as I tell the Colonel what happened I'm off to bed. I've had enough surprises..._

The Englishman blinked in disbelief, then again. Instead of Stalag 13, the outline of a worn trail greeted his tired eyes. He stared at the blue-lit path, stunned.

_That's the way to the cemetery,_ he realized with a start. _I've gone full circle! But how?_

Absently, he noted that the St. Elmo's Fire - or whatever it was - now covered at least half the path beneath it. The luminous glow seemed to be even stronger than before.

_Or is it just my imagination?_

He angrily turned away once more and started back down the main trail. This time, he kept a sharp eye out for the usual telltale landmarks. To his growing dismay none of them crossed his searching eyes. The RAF Corporal knew he was on the right path; he just _had_ to be.

That notion was swiftly dissuaded when he spotted a subtle blue light peeking through the trees. His annoyed eyes glowered in frustration when he saw the now-familiar outlines of the cemetery path.

_That's bloody impossible!_ he raged. _We've been through these woods more times than I can count! Until now there's never been a problem!_ He glared meanincingly at the softly lit pathway before he made a quick decision.

_Fine!_ his irritated thoughts blurted. _I don't know what's going on. On the other hand, the cemetery isn't far from the camp; at least I won't get lost going through there!_ He glanced at the fence that lay at the end of the path.

_Look on the bright side, Peter, _a cheerful part of his mind reassured him. _ At least the graveyard isn't that big!_ If it were possible, Newkirk would have narrowed his eyes at his own misguided brain.

_You just had to say the word 'graveyard,' didn't you?_ he groused, then sighed in resignation. _ Well, it's not the first time we've gone through there. And it'd be quicker than going through the woods. _ He glanced up at the full moon, then nodded. _Might as well be quick about it._

With the decision made, he slowly walked down the lit path towards the waiting cemetery.

_[fin]_

* * *

_A/N: Next - Chapter 2: The Graveyard_

_I'm not sure how long it takes to walk from Stalag 13 to Hammelburg and vice versa, so I guesstimated about 15-20 minutes or so. Enough to be within easy walking distance._

_St. Elmo's fire is a real phenomenon; given the right conditions it can appear on the ground. Of course, Newkirk doesn't realize that it usually takes storm conditions (or something close to it) to produce the effect. Given that it's a clear moonlit night...(cue eerie music)_

_As always, thanks for reading! _


	2. The Graveyard

_**Darkness**_  
_**by 80sarcades**_

* * *

_Welcome back, and enjoy!_

* * *

**_Chapter 2: The Graveyard_**

To Newkirk's amusement, the blue light almost seemed to ripple like water when he walked through it. For a moment, he watched the 'waves' flow outward from his shoe before disappearing at the path's edge in a crackling hiss .

The cemetery gate - in reality, the back entrance - was actually part of a worn picket fence. Hinges, long since rusted over, squeaked loudly in the silent air as the door opened, causing the Englishman to cringe.

_Nothing like waking the dead_, he inwardly grinned. _ Wouldn't want the living to show up either!_ With care, he latched the noisy door back into place before turning to look at his surroundings.

_It's just a cemetery,_ he thought wryly, trying to keep his spirits up. _What did you expect? _Still, he couldn't deny the hesitant feeling that suddenly washed over his soul; for an instant, he had the undeniable urge to _run_. With effort, he quashed the stray emotion even as a nervous laugh escaped his lips.

_Get off it! _ the rational part of his mind admonished. _All they are is a collection of stones! We'll walk through and that will be that! _ He scanned the quiet area again, his tension easing slightly.

_I wish LeBeau were here._

The thought of his best friend immediately cheered the Englishman up. Usually, the feisty Frenchman was the first one to volunteer for missions. Tonight, however, he was in bed; a head cold had robbed him of his usual high energy.

_I wonder if Carter ever fed him that chicken soup he was making,_ he wondered, his lips quirking slightly in amusement. _And you think the Krauts serve bad food..._

With a chuckle, he started forward on his journey through the cemetery. As he did so, the lighted pathway behind him - unseen by his eyes - spluttered once more before fading into the darkness.

* * *

Mindful of superstition, Peter Newkirk took care not to step on any of the graves as he made his way through the cemetery. He cast a curious eye on some of the stone markers; idly, he wondered about the people that lay beneath them.

_Were they good or bad? Rich, or poor?_ He shrugged, not knowing the answer.

_In the end, I guess it didn't make any difference, he decided. They all went the same way. Guess I will, too. _ A cocky smile then tugged at his thin lips. _Course, I can wait for a long time for that_. _Say, 1987 or so. Forty-something years from now seems long enough..._

A faint light, shining through the tombstones, suddenly caught his attention.

_What is that?_ Curious, he walked closer.

A hazy blue light - similar to the one on the cemetery path- outlined one of the headstones in a shimmering glow. Newkirk cocked his head in surprise.

_Why just that one stone?_ he wondered, confused by the solitary sight. _You would think that more of them would be lit up. Or at least the grass, somehow._ Unlike its brethren, the name on the tombstone was easy to read in the subtle light:

_**Erika Baum**_

_**16 Mai 1902**_

_**23 Juli 1937**_

_I wonder who she was? _

He looked at the small stone angel - its hands cupped to its face as if in sorrow - standing on top of the monument. The Englishman eyed the surrounding markers; as best as he could tell none of them had any kind of adornments. Just this one.

_I guess someone really loved her. Either that, or she liked angels._

As he turned to leave, he saw something in the corner of his eye. Startled, he whirled his head back towards the blue phenomenon. Except for the tombstone, nothing was there.

_I could have sworn..._

He frowned, unsure if his mind was playing tricks on him again.

_For a moment, I thought I saw a woman leaning against the headstone. A brunette, wearing a fancy dress. She was looking right at me..._

Newkirk's thoughts trailed off into nothingness as his eyes noticed something both odd and frightening. The angel, once weeping, now had its hands clasped in front of its chest as if in prayer; the face, now outlined in blue, looked up at him.

Straight at him.

A shiver of fear coursed down the Englishman's spine as he intently studied the figure.

_It was crying,_ a small part of his mind absently mumured. _ It was crying..._

He blinked several times, all the while keeping his gaze on the statuette. _It has to be my imagination!_ he told himself, trying to believe the words. _Stone statues can't move; it's impossible! Just a trick of the light. That's all._

Resolutely, despite his feeling of dread, he managed to turn away from the strange spectacle. The white moonlight cast a sullen pall over the silent cemetery; with a bit of luck he would be out of there within minutes.

_It could be worse_, he reflexively decided before a bitter grin twisted his lips. _Then again, I'm not sure if I want to know how much worse it can get-_

A light feminine laughter suddenly broke the stillness of the graveyard before fading away into the night. Newkirk jerked, his body spinning around even as his frantic eyes searched the now-silent area.

He saw no one.

_But I heard a woman laugh,_ he thought, trying to control his growing fear. _And I'd bet two quid that it was the same one as before. _His eyes then widened in horror when they touched a now-familiar headstone.

The angel statuette was missing.

* * *

_A/N: Next - Chapter 3: Trouble Arising_

_The Weeping Angels (from the TV series Doctor Who) are, in my humble opinion, the creepiest 'bad guys' in fiction. Ostensibly, they are nothing more than stone statues of innocent Angels. Take your eyes off of them, however, and they turn into assassins…_

_As always, thanks for reading!_


	3. Trouble Arising

_**Darkness**_  
_**by 80sarcades**_

* * *

_Welcome! Thanks to everyone who has read and/or reviewed so far; your kind words are much appreciated!_

_I won't be able to post the next chapter until Tuesday PM (late night tonight). I plan to use my off day tomorrow to start catching up on/reviewing stories:-)_

_To **ColHogan**: Thank you for the review! Hopefully everything turned out all right; my prayers are with you._

_Have a great day!_

* * *

_Chapter 3: Trouble Arising_

_From the last chapter:_

_The angel figurine was missing._

A cold feeling of terror rippled through Newkirk's body as he stared openly at the empty tombstone.

_Impossible,_ his stupefied brain repeated, though the truth was plainly evident to his now-frightened senses. _Impossible..._

Somehow, he forced himself to turn away. As he did so, the RAF Corporal's right hand painfully collided with one of the nearby crosses. With a muffled curse, he quickly sidestepped the stone fixture and walked at a quick pace towards the cemetery gates.

_I have to get out of here,_ his fearful mind whispered even as his eyes darted around the supposedly empty cemetery. He was close, he knew. So close.

Suddenly, Newkirk stopped dead in his tracks when his ears picked up an decidedly odd sound. For a moment all was still; then he heard something strange echo against the nearby headstones. He cocked his head; it reminded him of a wind pushing leaves across a stone pavement.

_Or_ - and the thought chilled him -_ the sounds of small stone feet, running through the grass..._

_Don't think about that._

At that moment his eyes picked out two oddly shaped headstones that loomed from the moonlit darkness. He sighed in relief; the markers - _a husband and wife, I think_ – were only a coin toss from the entrance.

_About bloody time!_

As if in confirmation, he could just barely see the dim outlines of the small utility shed that adjoined the main gate. Newkirk started forward, intending to be done with the graveyard once and for all. It was only then that the Englishman noticed something else. Or, to be more accurate, the _lack_ of a familiar sound. He stopped in place, all of his senses fully alert.

The crickets had suddenly stopped chirping.

The RAF Corporal drew in a shuddering breath as an ominous silence descended onto the cemetery. A tremor of fear pervaded his bones; for some undefinable reason he had the feeling of being _watched_ by unseen eyes.

At that moment a shroud of darkness fell upon the large graveyard. Newkirk glanced up to see a cloud, its edges tinged with light, blocking the bright rays of the moon. Oddly, another thought - one of annoyance this time - popped unbidden into his mind.

_Never give a bloke an even break!_

He glanced upward again, almost mentally wishing the cloud onward. Slowly, the moonlight returned; he lowered his head...

...and instantly stopped breathing.

A line of shadowy figures stretched across the grass before him, blocking his way to the gates. A raspy wheeze, loud in the quiet graveyard, escaped his trembling lips even as he tried to blink the figures away. And then again.

The figures - whoever they were - didn't move. Instead, they merely stood in place even as the Englishman's eyes glanced up and down the line. The moonlight cast no glow upon their darkened features; it was impossible to tell if they were male or female.

Somehow, Newkirk found his voice. "Who are you?" he called out, his choked voice almost whispering the words.

No one responded.

Darkness claimed the land once more as another patch of haze obscured the moon. The figures faded into the blackness of night...

...and suddenly reappeared as the silvery light reemerged. Peter's eyes widened in terror when he realized the figures had silently moved in his direction. This time, they were only a grave's length away.

_Almost close enough to touch..._

He could see more details of the motionless forms now, though the faces were still pitch black. Despite the warm night, an icy chill slowly settled into Newkirk's trembling bones. He pulled his jacket close as warmth became but a memory, his body shivering as if he were outdoors in the dead of winter.

It was then that he noticed something else. His stunned eyes picked out a certain figure perched on a nearby headstone.

_It can't be..._

A small statuette of an angel, its features softly lit by moonlight, stared up into his frightened eyes. He could have dismissed it as just another statue, except the right arm of this one was raised upward, pointing straight at his heart.

Somehow, Newkirk tore his frozen feet away from the shadowy tableau and turned to run. As he did so, his right hand collided with something almost indefinable and cold. For a moment, he thought it was one of the stone monuments; his body automatically tensed to move around it...

...and then froze in place. A cold terror gripped Newkirk as he looked up into one of the faceless shadow people. He withdrew his hand and shuddered as the icy appendage, glistening with something wet and slimy, shone underneath the dim light of the moon. A foul odor, heavy with decay, then caused the Englishman to gag uncontrollably even as he staggered backward from the creature. Horrified, he whirled around to see more of the shadowy figures closing in upon him.

Terrified, Newkirk's rational mind and body broke free of its moorings; he ran wildly from the nearest strangers as the smell of the grave overpowered his already-frantic senses. Dimly, he realized that he was running away from the gate but he didn't care.

Not as long as he was away from_ them._

Another set of figures suddenly blocked his path; somehow, he careened his fleeing body to the right. Lungs heaving, he tore through the landscape before more shadows cut off his escape. As he turned yet again something cold and firm suddenly grabbed at his ankle, causing him to pitch forward; with a painful thud he slammed face first into the ground. Without looking, he could feel the icy air return as the specters closed in on his slender body. Hands, numerous and clammy, pushed him firmly into the ground even as he desperately struggled in their deathly grasp.

Abruptly, Newkirk broke free; he twisted around, arms upraised to defend himself, and saw-

Nothing.

Only the headstones, their solid forms silhouetted in the moonlight, greeted his terrified eyes. As best as he could tell he was quite alone.

Suddenly, a high-pitched - yet decidedly faint - noise broke the stillness of the graveyard. Newkirk's eyes darted around, yet no one was in sight; as jolted as he was he was surprised that he could hear anything past his own thudding heartbeat.

_There's no one here,_ he shakily told himself, not believing it for a second. _There's no one here. There's no one here-_

-and again, the weak sound once more invaded his ears. Although subtle, the very tone of it was enough to put his teeth on edge; if he didn't know better, he would have sworn it was a scream of pure _terror-_

And then, he knew why.

Belated realization dawned as he looked down at his hand. It was perfectly normal, a part of his mind noted; the slime that had covered the skin earlier was now gone. However, that wasn't why he was so interested in the appendage; it was the ground that lay _beneath_ it.

The spirits - or whatever they were - weren't trying to attack him, he knew now. Instead, they were trying to _guide_ him. To this very place. To this very _spot._

The smell of freshly turned earth, once always sweet to his nostrils, now turned sour as he stared in disbelief at the true horror of the graveyard.

* * *

_A/N: Next: Chapter 4 - Stalag 13 _

_For the purposes of this story, Newkirk can hear (weakly) what lies beneath the earth because he is sitting on the ground. However, although the earth does conduct sound, I find it hard to believe that anyone can hear noise through six feet of mostly loose earth...much less a coffin lid. _

_Being buried alive is one of those horror stories you don't want to think about. Although in theory it couldn't happen today (the emblaming fluids would kill you, for instance) it happened often enough back in the 19th century and earlier. Medical knowledge, to put it in a word, was lousy; people would 'die' of various diseases and would be quickly buried. Unfortunately, some of these were in some sort of suspended animation and would wake up in their coffins some time later. One webpage contained a report from a supervisor back in the 1890's (I think); he estimated that 2% of the coffins his workers were moving (for some reason, they had to move a cemetery) contained premature burials. ::shudder::_

_In my research, I found several websites that discussed (and in technical details, too!) how long someone can live in a coffin with a finite air supply. Some people, IMHO, have way too much time on their hands. This doesn't even include the other class of people I discovered. I won't discuss them here, but it proves how sick certain portions of humanity can be._

_Oh, by the way: Newkirk is a bit braver than I would be if I saw a stone angel disappear! Were I in his place, I'd break an Olympic speed record getting to the woods. And scream like heck, too..._

_As always, thanks for reading! _


	4. Stalag 13

_**Darkness**_  
_**by 80sarcades**_

* * *

_Welcome! My apologies for my tardiness; RL and emergency room visits do not make for proper chapter updates! However, neither rain, sleep (or lack thereof), snow, or head wounds will get in my way:-)_

_Thanks to those who read and reviewed the story so far. Enjoy, and have a great day!_

* * *

_**Chapter 4: Stalag 13**_

"...and that is why you will never get away with it, Hogan!" Major Hochstetter finished, his tone full of menace.

Instead of showing fear, Colonel Hogan's eyes merely twinkled with dry humor. "You're absolutely right, Major," he cheerfully agreed.

Hochstetter's narrowed his icy glare towards the American Colonel. "Right about what?" he asked suspiciously.

"That I wouldn't get away with it," the other officer grinned. "I should have known you'd know all about the party."

"Hogan, Hogan, Hogan," the Gestapo Major said wearily, shaking his head in frustration. "That's the trouble with you Americans," he growled. "You think only of parties while we Germans understand action." He_ slammed_ his fist against the desk; the sharp sound made Kommandant Klink, standing nearby, flinch slightly. "This is why you'll lose the war!"

"But you didn't even ask if there if you wanted blondes or brunettes at your party, Major," the Army Air Forces Colonel smoothly countered, continuing to smother the infuriated German with a cocky smile.

"The only blondes at your party, Hogan," Hochstetter snarled, coming around the desk to stand nose to nose with the American, "will be men who will get the truth out of you!"

Unruffled, Hogan cocked his head in amusement before wrinkling his nose in distaste. "Can you ask them to bring some mouthwash, Major?" he said casually, if not offhandedly. "A good mint flavor works wonders-"

"BAH!" Hochstetter interrupted, throwing another dark glare towards the POW. "We will see who-"

Just then, the shrill ringing of the phone on Colonel Klink's desk broke the argument. After a moment, the Kommandant answered the device.

"Stalag 13, Colonel Klink speaking..," he intoned. Seconds later, he handed the receiver off to Hochstetter. "It's for you, Major," he said lamely.

With a final sharp glance towards Hogan, the Gestapo Major grabbed the handset. "Ja, this is Major Hochstetter speaking," he arrogantly announced. "Who..."

Hochstetter's voice trailed off into a stunned silence as he listened to the voice on the other end of the line. As the 'conversation' progressed, the American Colonel traded a curious glance with his Luftwaffe counterpart; neither of them had ever seen the always-tempermental Major look so _pale_ before.

_No. Not pale,_ Hogan decided. _Scared._

_Scared of what?_

The still air of the now-silent office was suddenly broken by a sharp _click_; apparently, the other party had hung up. Hogan noted that Hochstetter's hand was slightly shaking when he replaced the receiver in its metal cradle. Oddly, that didn't bother the Colonel as much as the distant look in the Major's eyes, as if he were remembering something...

_What shook him up?_ he wondered.

"Klink," the Gestapo officer said, his voice weak, yet firm, "come with me. At once."

"Really, Major Hochstetter," Klink blurted loudly, "I should-"

"Now, Klink!" the Major snarled, a reddish color returning to his cheeks. "And you too, Hogan!" he ordered, further shocking both officers who traded another look of incomprehension.

_What is going on?_

* * *

For once, Major Hochstetter barely looked at the two men as they climbed into the back of his staff car. Within a minute, both Klink and Hogan were pressed back against their seats as the German Major floored the accelerator and took off through the hastily opened main gates.

As they sped along, Colonel Hogan looked towards the driver's seat. Hochstetter's gaze, reflected by the dim lights of the dash, seemed unusually intent.

"Going somewhere special, Major?" Hogan asked, trying to keep his voice casual. The Major grunted, but said nothing.

"We could stop by the Hofbrau on the way back," Klink offered by way of conversation. "I know this marvelous waitress-"

At that moment Major Hochstetter veered the heavy automobile sharply to the left; the sudden movement sent his passengers flying in the other direction. Colonel Klink, unfortunately, was crushed painfully between Colonel Hogan and the car door.

Neither man spoke to the driver for the rest of the short trip.

The staff car slowed, then stopped by a pair of ornate gates that loomed out of the darkness. Klink and Hogan looked at each other, confused by the same thought:

_What are we doing at a cemetery?_

"Out," Hochstetter curtly ordered. Without waiting for a response, he pulled a flashlight from the glove compartment before his boots landed on the dirt path leading to the cemetery. Hogan shrugged, then opened his car door; Klink quickly followed after him. The three men quickly moved past the open gates and into the moonlit graveyard.

"What now, Major?" the American Colonel asked, his body tense. He wasn't expecting the Gestapo officer to try anything, not with Klink around, but...

_This is getting bizarre!_

At that moment, Major Hochstetter held up his hand. "Ssh!" he hissed. "Listen."

In the quiet, all three officers heard an odd noise, faint but easily audible. And for a cemetery, easily identifiable.

"Someone's digging," Hogan commented quietly.

"At this hour?" Colonel Klink said, his tone incredulous. "I thought gravediggers worked in the daytime!"

"I don't think these are the good guys, Kommandant," the Colonel said dryly.

In one smooth motion Major Hochstetter tossed the flashlight to his left hand before he pulled his pistol out of its leather holster. With that done, he craned his head around to look at the two Colonels; the silvery moonlight cast an evil glow onto his twisted sneer, making both men shiver. With a wave of his weapon he beckoned for the men to follow him.

The scraping noise grew louder as they approached one corner of the graveyard. A man's labored grunts, mixed in with the sound of dirt hitting the ground, could be clearly heard on the night air. The Major raised his pistol before he silently crept forward, ready to strike. He lifted the flashlight with his left hand, thumb on the switch...

...and suddenly, Klink sneezed.

With a clatter, the shovel fell to the dirt as a dark form leaped from the pit. Major Hochstetter jumped forward and keyed the flashlight, flooding the area with harsh golden light.

"HALT!" he yelled. Moments later, he fired a shot into the air. The figure immediately stopped and raised its hands even as it cried out "_Nicht Schiessen! Nicht Schiessen!_" Shockingly, the voice was familiar to all three men.

"Newkirk?" Hogan blurted, not believing his eyes.

"Newkirk?" Klink parroted, angry that his perfect escape record was nearly ruined.

"Corporal Newkirk?" a nasal - yet oddly, not surprised - Gestapo Major said out loud.

Without answering, the RAF Corporal said nothing; instead, he immediately jumped back down into the grave to resume his grisly task. All of the men on the surface stared at each other with incredulous eyes.

"Newkirk, get out of there," Colonel Hogan said firmly, eyeing Hochstetter's upraised pistol. "That's an order." To his shock, the Englishman ignored his command. He was about to raise his voice further when the Kommandant, his monocle almost _glaring_ with anger, stepped forward.

"Yes, get out of there right now!" his outraged voice commanded. "What are you thinking-"

"Shut up, Klink," the Gestapo Major calmly snarled; his now-understanding eyes danced back to the open hole. "Keep digging!" he rasped at the still busy Corporal. Hogan stared at the Major, openmouthed.

"The hell he will," he blurted, an angry tinge to his eyes. "You can't-"

A muffled, almost primal, female scream tore into the night air causing the men on the ground to flinch back several steps; it was quickly followed by a series of frantic thumps that echoed against the walls of the excavated grave.

"SHE'S ALIVE, COLONEL!," Newkirk finally shouted. "SOMEONE BURIED HER ALIVE!"

A shocked look appeared on Klink's face; his mouth moved, but only silence emerged from his trembling lips. In contrast, Hogan recovered his senses quickly before he crouched by the grave to look in upon Newkirk.

"Are there any more shovels?" he called out.

"In the shack, by the gates," the RAF Corporal huffed, not slowing down one whit.

The Colonel's eyes quickly picked out the small building from the moonlit darkness. Within minutes, he returned with a shovel and was soon working alongside Newkirk while the two Germans watched.

Finally, after anxious effort, their shovels _thudded_ into something both wooden and hollow. The thumping from the inside of the coffin, mixed with indistinct words, only intensified as they cleared the top surface and edges of sandy dirt. After a further moment, Newkirk found the catches to the upper portion of the halved top on one side of the long box. Grimly, he looked at Hogan, who nodded. The Englishman undid the latches and opened the lid-

-and the figure of a old woman, her face a mask of terror, bolted upward from the coffin and screamed into the night. Her gnarled hands, covered with fresh blood, desperately grabbed for Newkirk's jacket, pulling him into a tight embrace even as she descended into uncontrolled sobbing.

"Ssh..." the Englishman muttered as he put his arms around the trembling body. "It's over..."

_[fin]_

* * *

_A/N: Next - Chapter 5: Murder by coffin._

_In theory, you can survive up to two hours in a casket once you are buried alive. The website I mentioned in the last chapter talked about oxygen exchange (i.e. air molecules in the loose dirt entering the coffin through a seam, etc.) Don't think anyone has put this to a practical use, though::shiver:: Being unconscious might push the limits, but not by much. _


	5. Murder by Coffin

_**Darkness**_  
_**by 80sarcades**_

* * *

_Welcome back! A bit late, but I'm here; my head, as well as my other personalities, are doing quite well! Now, on with the story..._

* * *

_**Chapter 5: Murder by Coffin**_

**_The day after..._**

"And that is your version of events, Corporal?" Hochstetter asked politely.

Peter Newkirk nodded slowly. "Yes, sir," he softly replied, trying to keep his voice level. For once, his usual sarcastic tone was nowhere to be found; the events at the graveyard had left him badly shaken.

_A bloody nightmare,_ he reflected. _Except for the old woman, it was no nightmare..._ He flicked his eyes to the nearby window; the bright sunshine that streamed inside Kommandant Klink's office did little to remove the dark shadows from his thoughts.

"So, to summarize," the Gestapo Major continued, his voice oddly civil, "last night, you dressed in civilian clothes in preparation for your escape. These ones here," he indicated, waving his hand towards a small pile on Klink's desk. "You then cut the wire on the south fence - an accomplice was obviously used, since no wire cutters were found..."

Newkirk flicked his eyes toward Hogan for a brief moment. _That's why the Guv'nor is always on top of your lot,_ he absently reflected with distant pride. _He had Kinch cut them as soon as we got back._

"...and you escaped into the forest. Once there, you started walking in the direction of Hammelburg. Your plan was to purchase a railway ticket and use it, along with your forged papers, to get as close to Switzerland as you could before escaping on foot across the border." Strangely, he nodded in appreciation. "An ambitious plan," he said, his tone approving. "And just what were you going to do for food?"

The Englishman shrugged, but said nothing.

"No matter," Hochstetter said dismissively before continuing the summary. "You then entered the graveyard and heard what sounded like a faint cry for help. Upon discovering the source-" Newkirk thankfully noted that he didn't say _grave_ "-you broke into the maintenance shed to retrieve a shovel before starting to dig. This is where we found you. Do you dispute any of this?"

The RAF Corporal shook his head. "No, sir," he calmly answered.

_That sounds a lot better than the other things I saw last night,_ he thought, inwardly shuddering at the terrifying memories. _You wouldn't believe it. I don't want to believe it._

The Major eyed him with a pensive stare before he walked around the desk to face the Prisoner-of-War.

"For what it is worth, Corporal," he said, his harsh face softening slightly, "you have prevented a murder. A terrible one."

"A murder, sir?" Newkirk asked, his face confused. "Begging your pardon, Major, but how is that possible? I thought they embalmed people when they died."

Hochstetter nodded. "This is true," he replied; a crafty expression suddenly appeared on his features as he walked back behind Klink's desk. "However, in this case she was buried deliberately. And in this case, the husband nearly got away with murder."

"I don't follow you, Major Hochstetter," Hogan asked, his normally cocky voice filled with an air of curiosity.

"Frau Ursula Stein..." He looked up at the two men. "You wouldn't know her, of course." The Major then cut his eyes over towards the Kommandant. "Do you, Klink?"

The Luftwaffe Colonel shook his head.

"Her husband is the local funeral director," Hochstetter explained. "I've met her several times; a very strong-willed woman. On the other hand, her husband is..." He visibly searched for the words. "...I believe you might say, hen-pecked?"

"There's another word for it, but yeah," Hogan nodded, his mind making the connection. "I guess he got tired of it, huh?"

The Gestapo officer nodded sharply. "We brought him in for questioning last night," he explained. "Once he learned his wife was alive - and after some _persuasion_ - he was ready to reveal all."

Both Hogan and Newkirk traded a glance at the last statement. Unknown to the other, each of them had the same thought:

_For once, I'm glad the Gestapo was around!_

"He confessed to giving his wife a drug called Rinol," Hochstetter continued, shuddering involuntarily at the innocent-sounding name.

The Senior POW cocked his head, an odd look on his face. "I'm almost afraid to ask what it does," he threw out, almost not expecting an answer.

For a moment, the German was quiet before he spoke again.

"Essentially, it induces a state of suspended animation," he finally explained, his normally boisterous voice oddly calm and tranquil. "You are aware of everything, yet you cannot move or speak. To an uneducated observer, you appear to be dead. The Gestapo experimented with this drug some time ago; however, it is no longer used."

"It sounds like curare," Hogan mused thoughtfully. "I read about that somewhere. Some of the natives in South America use it on their arrows to paralyze their victims."

"True," the Major acknowledged. "However, curare paralyzes all of the muscles including the ones for breathing. Rinol is more selective; it allows the victim to breathe, albeit slightly. Just enough to maintain consciousness. With enough clothing, the breathing is undetectable."

"But wouldn't a doctor have known?" Newkirk questioned, an incredulous look on his face. Hochstetter shook his head.

"In this case, no," he said regretfully. "There is only one regular civilian doctor in town: Doctor Fuchs. Although retired, he returned to his practice when the other town doctors were called into service. As you might expect, his services are in demand; he had already had a long day when he was called to the Stein residence. After examining Frau Stein, he concluded that she passed on due to a heart attack. At the time it seemed logical; apparently, she had a history of heart trouble."

"Just not this time," Hogan finished, shivering. The German glanced in his direction, then nodded.

"Correct," he allowed. "Once the death certificate was signed, her husband prepared her for burial. From that point on the procedures were relatively straightforward."

"Wait a moment," Klink interjected, his voice solemn. "Shouldn't the hospital have noticed something was wrong?" Newkirk and Hogan swiveled their eyes toward the Luftwaffe Colonel, clearly confused, before Hochstetter picked up the explanation once more."

"It is possible," the Major declared, a tinge of anger infecting his voice. "Normally, she would have been transported to a hospital for embalming. However, her husband had been granted permission to conduct such procedures. A reasonable solution," he allowed. "The hospital could concentrate on the living, while the dead..."

His voice trailed off, unwilling to finish the sentence.

"By this point, Frau Stein was already paralyzed," Hochstetter went on. "And as long as her husband continued to adminster Rinol - approximately every eight hours - she would remain so." A sour, almost twisted look then appeared on the Major's face. "He took _pleasure,"_ Hochstetter spat the last word, "in taunting his wife while she was paralyzed. To his mind, it was revenge for the years he spent underneath her sharp tongue."

The Gestapo officer's voice then took on a distant, almost dreamlike quality. "I went to her funeral," he admitted softly. "We all admired how lifelike she looked. How peaceful." The German shook his head. "And all the while, we never realized that a murder was being committed before our very eyes..."

Hochstetter's voice trailed off as the men pictured the poor woman's torment; envisioning her trapped in her own body, laying helplessly as people swirled around her still form. Of being carried to her grave, her mind screaming soundlessly when she heard the first shovelfuls of earth dumped onto her coffin. The terror of regaining her senses, her hands frantically searching for escape in the stifling darkness...

Newkirk shivered when he recalled the inside of the coffin lid; the cloth interior, stained with blood, had been gouged clean through to the wood.

_Nothing's too good for the bastard now,_ he thought savagely. Another belated question - one that almost caused him to kick himself - then occurred to him.

"Where is she now?" he asked.

"Sedated," Hochstetter replied. "Understandably so. If she somehow keeps her mind, it will be a miracle. As to her husband..." His face turned dark. "Unfortunately, the courts will have to deal with him. Were it up to me..."

He let the sentence trail off as all of the men had the same thought:_ He'd be the one in the grave._

"She may want to see you when she awakes," the German officer said, locking his eyes onto Newkirk's. "If she does, I will let you know. As to your punishment for escaping..."

He pointedly looked at the silent Kommandant.

"...I will let Colonel Klink decide." With a curt nod, he headed for the door. As he closed his hand on the knob, a voice stopped him.

"Just one more thing, Major," Hogan casually mentioned. "I'm curious. Before we went to the graveyard, someone called you. Who?"

Hochstetter looked at him for a long moment. Without replying, he left the room; a minute later the sound of a car starting filtered through the thin walls of the office. Colonel Hogan walked to the window and watched as the Gestapo Major drove through the camp gates and out of view.

"Why is that important, Colonel?" Klink asked. "They did call, after all."

"Because usually people call the police, not the Gestapo," Hogan replied. "And whoever called knew he was here; they also scared the hell out of him. It was like he saw a ghost." He shook his head, then looked at the Kommandant. "Who was it, anyway?"

"A woman," Klink remembered. "She asked for Major Hochstetter specifically. I wonder who she was?"

Newkirk walked over to the other window and looked out onto the sunlit camp. "Do we really want to know the answer?" his now-solemn voice asked.

None of the suddenly quiet men had anything to say to that.

* * *

_A/N: Next: Final Chapter - The Last Laugh._

_The old axiom is true: you do learn something new everyday. In researching German funeral procedures, I found out that state hospitals actually embalm the deceased though this does seem to be changing. Typically, cemetery plots are rented for 20 years or so before they are reused. To me that sounds sensible; your loved ones won't be around to mourn you forever._

_Another factoid: some German cemeteries are having a bit of trouble reusing their plots. Normally, oxygen in the surrounding earth aids in the decomposition of the deceased. However, the cemeteries in question used clay as their primary soil composition; the resulting mix turned the bodies into something resembling wax mummies. Supposedly, they even sound hollow when you thump them._

_A bit of graveyard humor: there was once a fellow named Odd. Although he became a distinguished lawyer, he hated his name; kids and adults would point at him on the street and whisper, "That's Odd!" When he passed on, he left instructions that his headstone remain blank so no one could taunt him in death. As you might expect, complete strangers pass his marker now; they take note of the blank stone and go, "That's odd..."_

_As always, thanks for reading! _


	6. The Last Laugh

_**Darkness**_  
_**by 80sarcades**_

* * *

_The final chapter, and a short ending. Thanks for reading!_

* * *

_**Chapter 6: The Last Laugh**_

Instead of returning to Hammelburg, Wolfgang Hochstetter turned off the main road and slowly headed for the cemetery. The drive itself was pleasant, if not uneventful; soon the picket fence bordering the resting place sped by his window as he drove up to the main gates. However, after parking the vehicle, he made no immediate move to get out of the heavy car.

For a long moment he looked beyond the fence and into the cemetery itself. Although he was reluctant to admit it - even to himself - the phone call warning him about the graveyard had unnerved him.

Especially considering the source.

With a quick motion, he opened the car door and stepped onto the cemetery path. A breezy wind, warm and fresh, blew against his rough face as he walked into the graveyard and to his first destination. The 'grave' of Frau Stein had already been filled in and the coffin removed for evidence. Despite the sunlit surroundings, Hochstetter suppressed a shudder; viewing the rectangle of loose earth gave him a chill no air could warm.

Satisfied, he nodded once before he set his sights on another part of the cemetery. This walk was a bit more lengthy; he passed the worn headstones of former town residents before he reached a particular marker. An angel, its head cupped to its hands in sorrow, stood on top of a newer, if only slightly worn, tombstone. With a grunt, Hochstetter crouched down by the foot of the grave before he lovingly pressed his right hand against the soft grass. The Gestapo Major's now-soft eyes then traced the etched letters of Erika Baum's name even as his mind drifted back to a time not so long ago...

_...when she was alive, her brown eyes sparkling with life; the warmth of her smile touching his soul..._

With effort, he pushed the painful memories away. Instead, he concentrated on the task at hand. _What was the old saying?_ he wondered. _Whatever remains, however illogical, must be the truth._

_It was you, wasn't it?_ he silently asked._ You warned me. But how?_ A tear, unnoticed, slipped down his cheek as the image of a certain woman danced through his thoughts. This time he refused to let her presence slip away into the shadows of memory.

_Sometimes, I hear your voice in my dreams_, he wistfully recalled. _Then I wake up and remember what happened. Remember you, when you were sick. Before..._

He closed his eyes for a moment and let out a long breath.

_But I heard you on the phone!_ he continued. _A voice from the grave._ A twisted grimace of self-loathing then appeared on his thin lips. _Why couldn't I say anything?_ he asked, berating himself. _I could have told you I loved you when I had the chance! Instead, I just stood there! _As if on cue, a small part of his mind recalled her words:

_Come to the graveyard, darling, _the sweet voice had implored._ Come and save her. He's here..._

After a moment, Hochstetter's watery eyes refocused on the headstone. His narrowed eyes studied the monument, curious; if he didn't know better, he would have sworn the angel's hands had opened slightly. It was almost as if the figurine was peeking out through its fingers, watching him...

_Nonsense,_ he thought dismissively, then sighed._ I'm just tired. That's all._

_To be candid, Corporal Newkirk's story was somewhat less than truthful_. _Oh, not in the important aspects; he was in the cemetery. Given the circumstances, I also believe he was attempting to escape._ _However, a man on the run generally travels in a straight line._ _The grave in question is over towards one of the far corners; somehow, I highly doubt he would have discovered it on his own._

_Unless, of course, he had some help..._

Hochstetter gave the headstone a pensive stare before a small grin crept onto his lips. _You always had a wonderful sense of humor,_ he inwardly smiled. _Somehow, you could always make me laugh._ A dry chuckle escaped his throat as another scenario occurred to him; despite the improbability, he wondered if it was true.

_I wonder - just wonder - if you scared the Englishman somehow._ He shrugged, then stood up._ Silly, isn't it? However, who knows?_

Hochstetter's eyes lovingly touched the headstone once more before he turned away to walk back to his car. As he did so, another whimsical thought caused him to snort in amusement:

_Personally, if you did it would have been worth it to see the look on his face..._

At that moment, a light feminine laughter echoed through the stone forest before disappearing on the wind. The Gestapo Major whirled around, senses alert. No one was around.

Not a single living soul.

Hochstetter smiled.

_[fin/ende]_

* * *

_A/N: It's not beyond the realm of possibility that Hochstetter can fall in love. No one ever said he was a dummy, either._

_A quick comment: Rinol is a fictional drug; it even sounds harmless. Then again, I have no doubts that something like it exists, somewhere. _

_As always, thanks for reading!_


End file.
